


Codex Classified

by MB95



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:22:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22164778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MB95/pseuds/MB95
Summary: When the mercenaries of RED and BLU are faced with the largest problem they've faced, they have to come together in the worst way possible to fight something even worse.
Relationships: Engineer/Pyro (Team Fortress 2), Miss Pauling/Scout (Team Fortress 2), Sniper (Team Fortress 2)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Codex Classified

**Average Day on Dustbowl**

**3rd Person POV- Dustbowl**

_ Whoosh!  _ A corrugated metal door flew open as a skinny man dashed under the metal panel. He was wearing dusty black cleats with two thin white stripes, knee-high, white socks, black trousers rolled up to the knee, a red t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the shoulder and a blocky baseball cap with an orange-muffed earpiece with a subsequently attached microphone. His hands were wrapped in bandages, the bandages bound to his hands like a pair of fingerless gloves. He had two dogtags connected to a single, skinny ball-chain blowing over his shoulder. On his back, swinging parallel to his dogtags was a black baseball bag, half-zipped open with a shiny, blood-spattered aluminum bat inside. He had a thin, dark belt around his waist with a shiny, silver-coloured buckle. His eyes, hidden by the shadow his hat created, were ice-blue, pairing with his cocky, arrogant toothy smile to form the face of Jeremy Hattermann, or simply ‘Scout’. He was young, only around twenty-two, surprisingly young for such an extensive war.

In his hands was a sawed-off shotgun with a wooden foregrip falling just short of two twin barrels, a small ball-point sight welded on the top near the end of the barrels. The stock and barrels were attached to a stout cylindrical base and extending opposite was a wooden handle with a flick-pump reload. It was Scout’s scattergun, a deadly twin-barreled menace of a modified hunting shotgun.

“Mission begins in sixty seconds!” An aged, demanding female voice sharply crackled across the land from old, scratchy speakers all around, reaching Scout’s ears as he booked it across the dusty, sun-bleached rocky ground. Orange puffs of dust flew up under his feet as he ran and the droughting sun was merciless, beating down without rest like a cosmic devil. Scout’s tanned skin resisted the heat as he suddenly took a sharp left turn around a dusty, dented silo, before taking another left turn into a wooden building. He then turned right, running through a tunnel. As he exited, he came to a box-like building after another tunnel exit to his right. It had two large, paneless windows which had a large wooden platform spanning both in front. Under the platform were a few rusty, out-of-order minecarts piled high with ancient black coal.

In front of him was a small canyon, which led into a large bluish building with chain-link doors. To the left of the canyon was higher ground that was level with the ground of the building next to him. The land held a small, wooden shed next to a rocky wall, of which was a part of the blue base. On the right side of the small canyon was a wider piece of high ground, which led to the aforementioned large box-like building via an empty door frame. There was another, larger shed with a few boarded-up windows, this time next to another pair of chain link doors in a wall of the blue-shaded building. Scout turned into the large, box-like building to his right.

Inside of the structure, the rocky, bleached ground was replaced with a cool, smooth stone floor, as well a large metal circle in the ground. In the metal, there was a red, glowing light in its center. To the left of the circle was a wooden staircase which led up to a short bridge that entered back into the short cave he just exited, however to a higher third path.

Suddenly, Scout felt his body filled with, for lack of a better term, power. He skidded to a stop as he looked over his shoulder. Behind him was an older man, around forty. He was dressed in a buttoned-up white lab coat that extended down to his belt before it opened and continued to his knees, red rubber gloves that went up to his elbows, brown trousers and knee-high military boots. Around his waist was a dark-brown belt with many pouches of varying sizes. Also hooked to the belt was a light-grey, blood-stained bonesaw and an air-powered syringe gun. Mounted on the top of the gun in a large rectangular divet was a clear, plastic cylinder which housed lengthy needles, filled with a mysterious, unidentified clear liquid, which was sloshing around viscously with his every move. The man’s hair was greying on the sides of his thin face and his eyes, partially concealed by a pair of thin-rimmed black metal glasses, matched Scout’s in colour- a piercing ice blue. He had high cheekbones which made his face appear thinner than it really was, alongside a cool glare that kept his secrets behind a wall. A small lock of his black hair had fallen over his right eye, which he kept trying to push back up with his hand to no avail as the hair rebelliously repeated to fall. This man was Reficul Ludwig, the team’s medical professional. Coincidentally, he went by ‘Medic’ (or any other colloquialization of ‘Doctor’) on the field.

On his back was a heavy-looking, boxy white plastic backpack kept secure with thin, brown straps over his shoulders connected with metal clips to the dark belt around his waist. On the top-left of the backpack was a short, thick antenna with crackling, red electricity sparking around a metal ball on the top. Coming out of the bottom of the box-like pack was a small, circular valve with a black, rubber hose, which led to the odd weapon, or more rather, tool in his gloved hands.

The hose led into a circular seal, connected to a red, cylindrical base. On either side of the base were two metal plates, which were connected to a double-barred metal handle he held in his right. On the front of the base was a very thick grey metal plate, kept to the base of the gun with heavy screws. Extending from the bottom of the plate was a handle, worn and scratched from use. Extending from the front of the plate was a long tube, with a thick, hollow nozzle. From the tip of the nozzle was a red, translucent beam, and was also emitting similar red electricity to the antenna on his backpack. This was the Medi-Gun. It was the most amazing leap and science-bitch-maker in the history of medicine, as it could heal almost any wound as long as said wound wasn’t fatal. 

It did this by converting chemical electricity in a beam of gentle plasma that carries a very specific combination of chemicals that, in essence, quintupled coagulation alongside increasing the white blood cell count, widening blood vessels almost beyond normal human levels and practically  _ pumping _ collagen into the wound, alongside the required proteins and energy needed to regenerate.

“Let’s vin zis.” Medic said, a thick German accent altering his words. He grinned cruelly, his glasses reflecting a glint of the harsh sun. He laughed darkly alongside his foreboding grin.

“Oh, absolutely! Abso-freakin’-lutely!” Scout replied, his jovial voice filled with a thick Bostonian accent. He heard another enter the small building.

“Come along now, Doktor.” A bald, large, strong, tall man looked at the apparent doctor. He had a red t-shirt on, covered by a dark brown vest and a bandolier with large bullets on it over his right shoulder. His forearms were bulky and muscular, with the width of your average man’s head. He had dark cargo pants on, with black dusty boots. His humongous hands were covered by black, fingerless gloves with a rectangle cut into the back of the palm. He held a huge Gatling-style minigun with a white, slightly rusty barrel of ammo strapped beneath it. In his broad, loose left-sided breast pocket was a small sandwich with two indiscernible slices of meat, Emmental Swiss cheese, tomatoes and lettuce topped with an olive on a toothpick. He, like Medic, was in his forties. This was Mikhail (or Misha) ‘Heavy’ Slovak, the team’s heavy weapons professional.

Oh, and by professional, he just toted around a gigantic minigun he called ‘Sasha’.

“Of course.” The doctor replied, following the man out of the door. Scout smiled as the two, clearly excellent friends, continued on.

“Teleporter comin’ up!” A Texan-tinged voice echoed from outside. Scout leaned around the door frame near the tunnels to see a man, yet again dressed in a red shirt, but this time the sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. His right hand was covered in an orange welding glove that went up to just below his elbow, a grey stripe around the wrist with matching grey fingertips. He had reddish-brown overalls and dark-brown boots. On his waist was a dark belt with many pouches, along with a small nine-millimetre pistol, a coiled, orange extension cord and a large pouch. On his bald head was a shiny yellow hard hat and orange-tinted grey welding goggles. In his gloved hand was a heavy, iron monkey wrench with a large head and a dark-grey grip. Strapped across his back was a twelve-gauge, pump-action shotgun sawed off near the forestock. The barrel was a dark grey metal, and the stocks were a light coloured wood. This was Dell Conagher, arguably the smartest man on the team as he had the most PhDs, at a shocking eleven. He was in his mid-thirties, his skin tanned by the brutally merciless sun.

“Scout, where are Medic and Heavy?” He asked, his face curved into a slight smile that was in turn carved with slight questioning.

“Uh, they just passed me. They’re guardin’ the right door.” Scout said, motioning towards the door with his gun.

“Good. Soldier and Demo are comin’. I’ll tell Medic they’re guardin’ the left doors.” He said, clipping his wrench onto his belt. He took the shotgun off his back and pumped it, sending an old shell from the last battle clattering to the ground with a deep breath. “Let's do this.” He breathed, nodding to Scout.

“Yeah, you bet!” The skinny man replied, mock-saluting him.

Dell, or Engineer, simply laughed -more of a jovial scoff- at Scout's action. “Thanks, boy.” He turned towards the strange contraption he had placed on the ground, as it shifted and moved. It was a finely shaped and refined oblong piece of metal, painted a bright, shiny, vibrant red. It had small lights glowing yellow and orange, with a pinkish coloured light glowing in the center. They were all lit dully. Two thick wire metal clamps burst open before the lights flashed blindingly. The machine began spinning rapidly, and the lights began to blend together into a red light encompassing the entire circumference of the device. Suddenly, a white shape materialized from the light along with a quiet whir, throwing red sparks everywhere. Scout squinted as he looked away, and Engie (Engineer) brought his gloved hand to cover his face. The light faded, revealing a man.

He was dressed in a red trench coat, extending to just above his knees. Wrapping across his torso was a wide bandolier with two orange fragmentation grenades. He had brown trousers with large military boots. On his head was a large metal helmet, covering his eyes. Much like Engineer, a shotgun was across his back, clipped to his bandolier. He also had a folding shovel under the belt around his waist. In his hands was a large RPG, made of dark grey metal, with a large plate curving to the shape of the weapon. There was a small set of sights near the front. There were two wooden handles on the bottom near the front, the backmost one containing the trigger. Sprouting from the back of the gun was a large wooden portion, which widened, a small strap with a hook coming from the widest part. The back began shrinking again, before becoming a metal exhaust port, widening in a funnel shape with a small taper near the edge. A small chip was in the rim of the exhaust from use.

“I am prepared to win! Don't fail this team, men!” He shouted, in a harsh drill-sergeant-like voice. “Make America proud!” This man was Jane ‘Soldier’ Doe, a jingoistic, hard-boiled man who loved his country- perhaps a little  _ too  _ much. He, like Engineer, was in his mid-thirties, a scruffy, unshaven beard beginning to sprout from his face.

“Yeah! They ain’t takin’ this here point! Not by a damn sight.” Engie replied, nodding to Soldier. He lifted his shotgun as he spoke.

“Now that is what I want to hear!” Soldier replied jovially, saluting him. He began to head off to the thinner piece of high ground to the left of the tiny canyon, opposite of Medic and Heavy.

“Mission begins in thirty seconds!” The same female voice from before echoed through the map again.

“Alright Scout. Take yer’ place.” Engie said, turning to the skinny man. “Gotcha!” Scout replied, leaving Engie to himself. Behind him, Scout heard another whir as another teammate popped through Engie’s teleporter. Scout looked over his shoulder to see who it was.

The man had a red shirt with sleeves that extended down to his elbows, with white sleeves under that led to his wrists, contrasting his dark black skin. He had a heavy jacket with six yellow grenades on two thick bandoliers, which were in turn attached to a large blast jacket that hugged his torso. He had a large chest-like pouch and a pentagonal crotchplate near his groin. His pants were the same colour as his shirt, a bright vibrant red. He had dark boots on, going up just past his ankles. He had a tight beanie on as well as an eyepatch over his left eye. His face was chiselled and blocky, and a scruffy, unkempt beard of tangled black hair covered the bottom half of his face, with a strip under his lips shaved entirely.

Hooked onto his jacket was a large grenade launcher, made of a dark metal shining in the sun. The weapon had six thick barrels, as well as a single barrel extending from the front. It had a heavy wooden forestock and iron sights. Sprouting from the back of the gun was a large wood shoulder stock, a metal cap on the back. In his right hand was a large -almost unwieldy- modified grenade launcher, with sectioned front, middle and back parts as well as a large brown drum with a clip on a hinge underneath. The front barrel had a wooden handle underneath and a small sight on the top. On the back of the gun was another grip with a dark grey trigger, as well as a pull-back reload. In his left hand was a large, brown glass bottle of alcohol, with the writing ‘xXx’ and ‘1808’ printed on the label. This was Tavish Finnegan DeGroot, or ‘Demoman’, the teams’ (often drunk) demolitions expert.

“Ach, thanks fer the teleporter, lad!” Demo said, a slight drunken slur further altering his Scottish-tinged voice. He brought the glass bottle to his mouth, taking a heavy drink before belching loudly.

“Ah, it’s nothin’,” Engie replied humbly, smiling at Demo’s drunken antics. Scout looked ahead again as he approached Soldier, who was looking at the chain-link doors with a large smile.

“We haven’t lost ground yet, and these childish maggots won’t take it from us!” He shouted, slightly saluting Scout.

“Oh yeah! Dis is our frickin’ land, Soldia’!” Scout replied nodding. “Ey, by the way, you see Spy or Snipah anywheh? ‘Aven’t seen ‘em yet.” Scout asked, looking around quizzically for his other two teammates.

“No. I don’t personally monitor baguette or down-under. Haven’t seen ‘em.” Soldier replied, lifting his helmet to scratch the back of his neck. This team, while excellent teammates in the heat of battle, could be quite dickish to each other, however all in good fun.

“Mm,” Scout replied, looking down at the dusty ground, puzzled as to where the other two were. Suddenly, Scout felt a bullet whiz by his ear and a long, rifle-produced shot echoed throughout the map. Instead of having a normal reaction to almost being shot- like crapping his pants or praying to high heavens- he turned around, unimpressed.

Behind him, on the wooden platforms on the building was a man wearing a red shirt with a dark vest over it, dark brown jeans and brown shitkickers. Perched on his head was a large akubra. It was a light brown material with a dark brown shiny strip around the base of the hat. The right corner was bent up. The man’s face, much like Medic’s, was very thin. He had orange-tinted shades on and three large rifle bullets were a tight breast pocket on the vest. In his hands was a large sniper rifle with a beige sight and a laser pointer underneath, separating the barrel and the sight with a small metal bar. Extending from the back was a reddish-brown shoulder stock. This was Oliver Mundy, the teams’ professional sniper.

“G’ day!” He shouted, a coy smile on his face. His accent was heavily Australian. Scout raised an eyebrow before flipping Sniper the bird. “Screw you, Snipah.” He said monotonously.

“Aw, I’m sorry, mate.” He mocked, placing his left hand on his chest in feign apology. Scout simply scoffed, rolling his eyes. He turned back towards the gate, hearing Sniper laugh behind him. Soldier also rolled his eyes with a ‘tch’-like scoff, unamused by Sniper’s usual cocky antics.

“Mission begins in ten seconds!” The voice boomed.

“Wait, where’s Spy?” Scout shouted over it, turning his focus back over to Engie.

“I ain’t got no damn clue, son! Haven’t seen Pyro, either!” Engineer shouted back, taking preemptive cover behind the minecarts. His mouth curled up in a fierce snarl as he gazed at the doors.

“Damn,” Scout whispered under his breath. He did a headcount, and he counted seven. Their team had nine mercenaries. Where were those two?

“Five…”

Scout heard Heavy rev up Sasha in preparation.

“Four…”

“Everybody ready?” Engie shouted.

“Three…”

“Come at meh!” Demo shouted, spinning the barrels on his grenade launcher.

“Two!”

_ “Horrido _ !” Medic shouted.

“ONE!”

The spawn gates flew open, allowing the other team to leave.

“ **FIGHT** !”

A man, identical to Soldier- part a blue coat, a blue-tinted helmet and yellow frag-grenades- dashed out of the left door, before pressing the trigger on his rocket launcher, launching a rocket aimed at Sniper. Scout felt his blood pump as he ran in front of the man, firing a shot aimed squarely at his chest. The man groaned in pain, but turned to Scout, firing a second rocket, which Scout easily swerved to avoid. Soldier- the one on Scout’s team- fired a rocket at the enemy, but barely missed.

Scout slid under the enemy’s third projectile, firing another shot at the man. Once again, he groaned in pain, but he was still kicking. Suddenly, his body went rigid as a bullet clanged against the inside of his helmet, creating a small dent. He fell forward, revealing a man behind him.

The man held a black, shiny revolver with white grips in his black-gloved right hand. The glove extended to a white cufflink that fell beneath a red suit. Under the suit was a white shirt and a wine-red tie, as well as matching pants. On his left wrist, just below the cufflink was a rectangular, silver watch. He had black dress shoes, shiny and polished, reflecting the harsh glare of the sun above them. His face was covered in a tight balaclava, although the garment revealed a small fraction of a well-groomed stubble and freezing ice-blue eyes, as well as thin lips with a small cigarette between them, a thin trail of smoke rising from the flaring end. This was ‘Spy’, the teams’ espionage professional. His left hand was clasped behind his back, creating an image of a man with plenty to hide.

“Scout.” He said, a French accent tinting his words. He extended his left hand to the man on the dusty ground, which was gratefully accepted. Scout dusted himself off and adjusted his cap, which had fallen out of place from his slide.

“Thanks Spy,” Scout said, nodding at the older man.

“Anytime,” Spy smiled. However, the two suddenly ducked as a flashing blue grenade flew over the two’s heads. “Now go!” Spy said, slapping Scout’s chest with the back of his hand. He hit a button on his watch, before disappearing into thin air. Scout flicked the reload of his scattergun twice, sending the two empty shells he’d fired at the Soldier to the dusty orange dirt.

“One down.” He sighed, steeling his jaw in preparation for the impending fight.

**Twenty-Two Minutes Later…**

“Red team wins!” The woman’s voice echoed through the map again, announcing Red team’s victory. They had gotten pushed back to the second point after thirteen minutes, but they’d successfully defended Dustbowl until the time ran out.

“Whoo-wee! That was hard-fought, boys, but we did it!” Engie smiled. “Nicely done.”

“Oh, absolutely! Dis ‘ere? Dis is our freaking’ land, man! We’re da best!” Scout shouted, slinging his baseball bag over his back again. His bat clattered against his scattergun as it came to rest. The other six gave similar notes of congratulations, before making a slow-paced trudge back to a small stone building in the distance. Scout jogged up to Engie, who was carrying a red, metal toolbox with the numbers ‘24’ on it in faded, scratched yellow paint. Despite the fact that it had a light-coloured metal handle on a dark hinge, he was carrying the rectangular box under his left arm, his shotgun in his right, being carried by the middle of the barrel.

“‘Ey. Engie, Pyro show up anywhere durin’ dat? I know that he really likes ya, so I-” Scout began. Engineer’s jovial smile evaporated, quickly being replaced with an exasperated, angry scowl. “No, Scout. I ain’t seen Pyro, but when I do, I’m gunna-” Engie cut him off, his words more venomous than a black mamba.

“Okay, okay. I got it. ‘Aven’t seen ‘im. Okay.” Scout replied, raising his hands in apology.

“Sorry, boy,” He said after taking a deep breath. “It’s just, I swear if he’s just sittin’ at the base while we’re out workin’ our asses off, I’ll…” He stopped himself, giving an exasperated sigh after a second.

“Yeah, I get it,” Scout replied. The rest of the walk was a somewhat awkward silence between Scout and Engie, while the other six traded small talk and congratulations about the battle. It was five minutes before Engie spoke again.

“Hey, Scout. Nice... Shootin’ out there.” Engie whispered.

“Yeah, thanks. Not too bad ya’ self. But that’s what happens when you’re a genius.” Scout replied casually, bumping Engineer’s arm. Engie simply smiled again. The silence returned, but this time it was peaceful, and the previous tension was nowhere to be found. Scout thought back to the battle, recalling how ‘amazingly awesome and super cool’ his moves were when he realized that he hadn’t seen the enemy teams’ Demoman at all during the fight.

“‘Ey, did you see their Demo at all?” Scout asked, wondering if he was just too busy wrecking ass to notice the opposing black Scottish cyclops.

“Uh. yeah. When he first fired at you and Spy, but after that, nuthin’. Hey, it’s weird that one of ‘em didn’t show, huh?” Engie replied, agreeing with Scout that it was odd that one of the enemy’s teammates was missing during the majority of the fight.

“Whateva. Probably wasted in spawn.” Scout commented, shrugging.

“Yeah. Probably.” Engie, however, wasn’t so convinced but went along with it anyway.

The sun-bleached building began to grow ever closer. Suddenly, a grenade- identical to those from Demo’s grenade launcher- came bouncing towards the group. However, it quickly blew up harmlessly a few feet in front of the group. Medic, who was in a deep philosophical discussion with Heavy, screamed, dropping the Medi-Gun. The hose disconnected from the backpack, letting it clatter to the ground harmlessly. He toppled onto Heavy, clutching the man's’ humongous arm with his gloved hands.

“Demoman!” Medic shouted incredulously and angrily, clutching his chest like he was having a heart attack.

“Uh, wha… What?” He asked drunkenly, unaware of anything that had just happened.

“Demo just shot grenade!” Heavy said angrily, readjusting his hold on Sasha. He looked at Medic, concerned, who was still trying to comprehend the fact that he was still alive. Being the sole focus of nine highly-trained madmen lacking basic respect for human dignity would fry anyone's nerves after six years.

“Och, What? No!” Demo deflected, pointing a thick finger at Heavy. “I didn’t do shit!”

“Son, we lot ain’t stupid,” Engie commented.

“What! I didn’t do anythin’! And I’ll stick that wrench right up yer arse!” Demo shouted, turning to Engie.

“Well, if you didn’t do it, den who did, Demo?” Scout asked, motioning towards Demo to answer.

“I, I don’t know, but it wasn’t me!” Demo said, shrugging.

Suddenly, the blue team’s Demoman came running towards the red team, his entire body engulfed in an orange flame.

“HELP MEH!” He yelled. However, he didn’t see Heavy in front of him and ran right into his thick torso. The Demoman fell onto his ass, the flames extinguishing from the movement. But Heavy barely budged, and simply swiped away some of the ashes that had landed on his vest with his giant hand. The Demoman looked up, seeing the near entirety of the Red team above him. Heavy cracked his knuckles menacingly.

“Oh me mother tilly…” He sighed. However, before a scowling Heavy could do anything, a red, shiny fire axe came hurtling towards the band of mercenaries. It hit the blue Demoman in front of them square in the back of the head, which killed him. Blood spattered all across Heavy’s large boots as the body slumped forward lazily. The team looked up- Heavy with a new, unimpressed look over his large, chiselled face- to see another person.

The person was dressed in a red head-to-toe flame-retardant rubberized suit, as well as ashen, soot-coated black fire boots and a smoke filtration mask. They had elbow-length black gloves with dark yellow fingertips. Across their chest was a bandolier with three grey incendiary grenades with an orange stripe and orange pins. Connected to the black bandolier was a belt with a shiny red flare gun hooked on to it around the person’s waist. On their back was a grey metal oxygen tank with orange segments and a pressure gauge on the top. Echoing from the vacant mask was heavy, deep breathing, as if they’d been fighting this Demoman for ages. When they looked up to their team, they seemed to calm down.

“Pyro! There you are, boy!” Engie smiled, approaching the supposed man. He strapped his shotgun across his back. Pyro leapt toward Engineer and gave him a large hug, causing him to drop the toolbox with a loud clang. Though it was heavily muffled by the mask on their face, they said something that Engineer understood as “Engie!”

“Hey, boy. Where you been this whole time?” He asked, parting from the hug.

“(Here. Fighting the Demoman.)” Pyro responded, pointing to the dead man at Heavy’s feet. Now, no one on Red could quite understand Pyro except Engie, who kind of acted as a translator for the rest of the team.

“So that’s where that bastard was hidin’. I was wonderin’ where in hell he’d run off ta.” Engie grimaced, picking up his toolbox again- this time though, he picked it up by the proper handle. “You able to handle yerself, boy?” Engie asked.

“(Not really…)” Pyro admitted sadly, rubbing the back of their head with a gloved hand.

“Hey, it’s okay, buddy. We all have them... ‘off days’.” Engineer rested a gentle hand on Pyro’s shoulder. Pyro appeared to cheer up hearing Engie’s kind words.

“Anyway, that battle was hard-fought. Who’s up fer some damn grub?” Engie asked, turning towards the rest of the team, flashing a toothy smile.

“Oh, absolutely! Abso-freakin-lutely!” Scout replied, reflecting Engie’s grin.

“ _ Da _ ,” Heavy replied, nodding his large head. Medic was only able to nod sheepishly, still trying to recover from the grenade scare.

“Aye!” Demo replied, raising his- apparently bottomless- bottle of alcohol in agreement.

**Town of Teufort- Ten Minutes Later**

The nine mercenaries were packed into a large red pickup truck. They were headed towards the nearby hobble of Teufort, a small backwater town of radiation-poisoned civilians, where these mercenaries were widely regarded as heroes.

See, these nine mercenaries weren’t your average men. No, they were closer to true superheroes. See, they were in a line of work that protected sites that, if they fell into the wrong hands- like the Blue team- it would surely spell disaster for the entire world. Dustbowl, the site they just defended, was actually a site that held a large missile, capable to annihilate the entirety of Canada, United States, Texas and Boston with its sheer blast alone, not to mention the radioactive fallout. By Engie and Medic’s calculations, the amount of smoke produced would cause a ‘nuclear winter’, where the sun would be blotted out as if the smoke was a heavy, unmoving raincloud.

Except, instead of normal rain, it would be  _ acid _ rain, radioactive fallout and flaming ash.

And, just in case anyone doubted Blue was all  _ that _ bad- which, there were a few- there had been a time that Red had indeed lost ground to Blue, and it turned out disastrously. It was a nuclear waste plant they had named ‘Radioactive Wreckhouse’, designed to withstand time long enough to safely store radioactive waste until it was safely neutralized enough to legitimately handle. Medic had been severely wounded and Red had to retreat. Because of their retreat, the Blues had taken the ground and subsequently attempted to kill all those in Teufort by leaking waste into the town’s water supply, which cursed about three or four generations- by Engie’s calculations- with unbeatable IQ drops, a record-high for birth defects, and the highest premature death rate in all of New Mexico. In fact, the premature death rate was  _ so  _ high that the New Mexico government gave Teufort its own special life expectancy number:

Twenty-eight years. Absolute tops. It was indeed hard to grasp, but it was as if four generations have been eating nothing but lead paint for five months. And it wasn’t even by just drinking the infected water. If people used that water to cook or boil anything, that thing was now somewhat radioactive

Yeah, Blue wasn’t  _ that _ bad.

Regardless, Engie pulled up to a small diner with a faded sign that read ‘BUCKY’S BARBEQUE & BAR’. Not hard to imagine why Demo was eager to visit again. “Alright boys, we’re here.” Engie sighed, turning back behind him. Scout and Soldier were bouncing idiotic-sounding strategies off each other, Sniper and Spy were in the middle of an intense round of beer-cap poker, Medic and Heavy were re-engaged with their philosophical discussion from earlier, and Demo was passed out, leaning against the wooden, fence-like tailgate of the truck, which was held together with thick, durable dusty rope. The seven men immediately looked up, hungry looks on their faces. Demo awoke at the news, his eyes wide and mouth watering at the prospect of more potent alcohol.

Pyro was sleeping beside Engineer, their mask-covered face leaning against the dusty, scratched passenger-side window. Faint, muffled snores emanated from the mask, echoing vacantly. Engie smiled, before shaking Pyro awake gently.

“Pyro?” Engie asked softly. “We’re here buddy.” Pyro shifted into a ball, bringing their dusty, ash-coated boots onto the front seat with a tired groan. Engie smiled. “Pyro.”

Pyro groaned, rubbing their ‘eye’. A yawn came from Pyro before they shook themselves awake.

“(What?)” They asked groggily.

“We’re here,” Engie repeated, opening the driver side door with a clunk. He stepped out, hearing his boots crunch on the rough gravel below them. He stretched, feeling his weary bones reconnect in so many places, it was amazing he could still stand.

Teufort was their home. It was where they had first met when they were hired, and it was where they were staying. Sure, it was small, in the middle of The Badlands, New Mexico, USA- or, for simplicity’s sake, nowhere- but it was truly the best home they had known for the past half-decade.

Besides, it was close to most of their sites, like Dustbowl was.

Engie placed his hands on his hips and looked around at the town. It was like an Old West movie the team would watch on their days off- the weekends, which acted as ceasefires. He always half-wanted a shootout to go down on Ol’ Chery (Sherry) Road, sometimes, just to witness a mortal shootout in person.

“Ah, my favourite customers!” A Romanian-sounding man said from behind him. Engie turned around.

Behind him was a stout, rotund man with a greasy white apron and a smoky-white chef’s hat. His hair was greying around his cheerful, round face, and his well-groomed mustache drooped just below the corners of his large mouth. His cheeks were flushed and bright red, probably from working in the hot, humid kitchen so much. His arms were open, his white sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was rather short, just about Engie’s height, who was the shortest on their team.

“Dell, it has been so long, no?” He asked, extending his hand to Engie.

“Ah Hell, Bucky, I told ya not to call me that.” Engie joked. He smiled, reflecting Bucky’s cheerful smile as he shook the man's hand. “But yeah, has been a Hell of a while, man.”

“Too long, my friend, too long! Come in, tell me what you’ve been up to!” Bucky said, ushering the nine mercenaries into the restaurant. They entered, allowing the quaint wooden door to swing closed behind them. Inside, it was a complete opposite of the aesthetic outside; Instead of dusty, sun-bleached wooden buildings, there was bright, polished dark wood, accented perfectly by wine-red upholstery, an almost velvet-like material, soft and smooth to the touch. The tables sparkled, and the calm, orange lighting emitted a warm, soothing aura blanketing the small eatery. Near the back, there was a porcelain tile wall with a large ordering window, where one could see into the kitchen. It was made up of white tiles and light grey walls, as well as clean, shiny appliances, which were updated and modern, but also held a rustic, old-timey appeal in their design.

“Veronica, they’re back!” Bucky shouted, cupping his hand to his mouth.

Suddenly, a blonde woman with a rather ditzy disposition appeared from behind the kitchen wall. “Ah, excellent!” Her accent was an odd combination of Italian and Bucky’s Romanian. She was somewhat taller than Bucky, about Medic’s height. She was wearing a typical waitress outfit, with a notepad and a blue-ink pen sticking out of a tight breast pocket. Her hair was just below her shoulders, shining a golden blonde in the warm orange light of the restaurant. She quickly dashed to the group, almost tripping a total of three times. While she certainly could be seen as scatterbrained or clumsy, she was sweet as anything and always ready to help whenever she could.

“Hey there, Vee!” Engie smiled. The seven other mercs gave similar cheery notes of greeting, before heading toward the back of the restaurant, where there was a large glass door marked ‘R.E.D. ONLY’. See, Veronica and Bucky were out on their honeymoon- yes, they were married- when Blue had leaked the waste, and when they had returned, Engie and Medic were able to reach them before they drank any tap water. Out of slight paranoia, they only drank and only served bottled water from anywhere outside of The Badlands since then. About half a year after their return, Red had successfully retaken the Wreckhouse and repaired the water. Bucky and Veronica regarded them as heroes, as the couple had found out about what the mercs had to do for a job (only after a night of slightly-too-strong alcohol, bad movies and soap operas, some strange fruit and maybe a tissue or two) and kept it to themselves, as what these mercenaries did was, well, not  _ entirely  _ legal, but necessary for the world at large.

See, while these men protected the world from devastation and the human race from total extinction, the law didn’t see it that way. The last time one of them was caught- three years ago- Scout had been prosecuted for first-degree murder, attempted murder, destruction of property, manslaughter, armed assault, and many, many more “illegalities”. Luckily, their employer, or more rather their employer’s assistant, Miss Pauling, had… done what she needed to do.

Needless to say, that court needed a new judge. Maybe some new defence attorneys. Definitely some bleach… A  _ lot  _ of bleach. Okay, a whole new damn courtroom.

Suddenly, the door opened behind Engineer. He turned to see who entered.

Pyro stood in the door but, upon seeing Veronica and Bucky, rushed to the married couple and hugged them with either arm.

“Oh, Pyro! Is good to see you again!” Veronica said, hugging Pyro back.

“Ah, yes, yes!” Bucky added.

Pyro separated, before waving to the married couple joining the other seven in the back room.

“So, how you two holdin’ up?” Engie asked, turning back to Bucky and his wife.

“We’re doing fine,” Bucky reassured, although his smile faltered somewhat. Though it was strange behaviour, and Engie had suspicions, he didn’t want to push his buddy.

“Good,” Engie replied, perhaps a bit too hastily.

“Anyway, go. Join your team! The food will be along shortly.” Bucky shooed him off towards the back room.

“Yeah, yeah,” Engie said, walking towards the back room, watching the married couple head off towards the kitchen. When he was sure they couldn’t see him, Engie ducked down and followed the two. He kept low under the counter window and approached the entry to the kitchen. He stopped, listening in to the couple’s conversation.

Bucky let out a breath, taking off his chef’s hat. “Oh, do you think he noticed?” Bucky asked as his cheerful grin fell off his face, and Veronica placed her arm around his shoulder.

“What?” Engie whispered, concerned why his usually upbeat friend was suddenly so negative.

“Maybe. Dell’s one smart cookie. Why didn’t you tell him the truth?” Veronica asked sadly, closing her bright blue eyes. Their voices were just under a whisper.

“It’s not his fault. It’s just customers aren’t coming anymore, and we’re running out of money. We can barely afford rent...” Bucky sighed, hanging his head in shame. He picked up a rent bill, which had small print saying ‘$809 + $915’ along with a heavy, large red stamp which read ‘OVERDUE’.

Engie fell short of words. His friend- no, his one  _ outsider _ friend was going under. How could Bucky be going under?

“How could this happen? Is it my food?” Bucky asked, effectively speaking Dell’s mind. “Well, like the men always say, it’s good, but it just takes forever, because we only have two chefs!” Veronica cried quietly, her fragile face welling up with tears. Suddenly, a lightbulb went off in Engie’s head. He felt a smile creep on his face. “People are getting more and more impatient, and you know how these people are!” Bucky sighed futilely, speaking cursedly of the poisoned town.

“Bucky, I’ve an idea.” He whispered, before sneakily dashing to the back room, where the team was seated. He pulled open the dark door, slowly allowing it to creep closed behind him.

“Y’all git up! We got some work to do!” Engie declared.

“Vhat? So soon?” Medic asked, standing. He was clearly thinking Blue was going to attack again.

“Nah, not like that. Bucky and Veronica are goin’ under, and we gotta help.” He clarified.

“Wait, they’re goin’ undah?” Scout cried, jumping up from his seat. “W-we gotta help, man! How can we help?” Engie shushed him.

“They don’t know we know, keep on the down-low, boys,” Engie said solemnly. “Medic, you and Heavy git inta the kitchen, help Bucky and Vee cook up some grub. Say the team’s wantin’ to prepare the food, as a bit of repayin’. Soldier, you and Scout set up some sample tables outside. Sniper, Spah, make some ‘Now Hiring’ sheets. Demo, you’re gonna go ‘round town tellin’ everybody about Bucky’s. Pyro, you’re gonna help me.”

“Engie! I got’n idea!” Demo said.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Engie asked, his hands on his hips.

“Wot if I brought samples with meh tah show them how good the food is?” Demo asked. Engie smiled at his rather incredible- and sober-sounding- idea.

“Damn son, good idea!” Engie agreed. “Jus’ don’t suck ‘em all down.”

“Faith, lad. Faith.” Demo said, patting Engie’s shoulder. He took off towards the kitchen with Heavy and Medic.

Pyro rocked on their heels in silence, waiting to hear their job.

“Alright, boy,” Engie said, grabbing the bored pyromaniac’s attention. “I’m gonna show yah how to grab some folks, Texas-style.” A toothy grin flashed on Engie’s face.

**Three Hours Later**

“Alright Pyro, Hit ‘er!” Engie said. Outside of ‘BUCKY’S BARBEQUE & BAR’ was the biggest crowd the establishment had ever seen. The entire town of Teufort, including the mayor, was standing in front of a gigantic chrome barbeque, with rows of juicy pork ribeyes, succulent steaks, gigantic slabs of mutton (per Demo’s request), thick chicken breasts, fat drumsticks and other mouth-watering pieces of meat upon its grand racks. The aroma of the cooking animals was making even Pyro hungry, judging from the deep, void-like stare- although, on second thought, it was a propane-powered cooker.

While the rest of the team were preparing food and getting an audience, Pyro and Engie had driven over to a warehouse nearby and gotten Engie’s prized chrome barbeque, with enough room on its racks to fit an entire damn moose.

Bucky stepped out of the doors of the restaurant in his apron and chef’s hat, holding a package of cigarettes and a small silver lighter. He looked out into the crowd with wide, confusion-filled eyes.

“Hello Teufort, and welcome to the new and improved ‘Bucky’s’!” Engie cried, causing the town to cheer. He smiled as the thoughtless town revved up. In his gloved hand, he was holding a large, grey metal remote, with a large screen, a long, segmented antenna and a single red glowing button.

“D-Dell, what’s all this?” Bucky asked, looking with shock, surprise and fear at the large crowd and equally large cooker.

“Bucky, uh... little bird told me y’all were goin’ under. I wrangled yah an audience and some extra chefs.” Engie smiled.“Wait, really?” Bucky asked as he looked to his restaurant, his voice barely above a whisper. Tears were welling in the corners of his large hazel eyes.

“Course, partner. Y’all ready?” Engie asked, and in turn, he received a raucous cheer. “Alrighty then! Pyro, light ‘er up!” Engie cried, slamming his fist onto the large, worn button.

Suddenly, a huge blue flame erupted from the grill, frying the meat in a spectacular show. The heat rising from the flame distorted everything behind it and blasted heat a fair distance away. The huge flame held for a minute or two before it started dying down, revealing the array of food once again. They were cooked to perfection, a smoky aroma causing the entire town- and the mercs- mouths to water. However, the show clearly wasn’t over.

Pyro revealed a huge steak fork in their hand. With a vengeance, they stabbed a large seared steak with the fork, before pulling out a bottle of vegetable oil, dousing the meat in it. He then turned a knob on the barbeque, causing a gigantic- controlled- burst of white-hot flame to erupt, enveloping the steak entirely.

Almost as soon as it had come, the flame disappeared, leaving a crispy, flaming hunk of meat on Pyro’s fork. They tossed the fork up in the air, almost like a flaming tribal dance stick. It twirled and spun in the air, the flame extinguishing. Pyro caught it, before peeling the meat off the fork, landing it perfectly on a fine, white sparkling plate with a heavy slam. They cracked open a bottle of bourbon barbeque sauce, liberally dousing the steak. They then twirled the plate on a single finger, before coaxing the scent toward the oxygen mask they wore like a fine waiter. They released a kiss against their fingers, confirming the beautiful aroma.

“Well done anyone?” Engie asked the crowd, receiving another cry of applause for Pyro’s stunning performance. Engie turned to Pyro, giving him a thumbs up.

“‘Bucky's Barbeque and Bar’ is now open fer business!” Engie shouted as the crowd started piling into the quaint restaurant. Through the crowd, Engie got a look at Bucky. His brown eyes were flooding with tears of joy, and he was sniffling profusely. His wife, who had come out to see what the noise was about, was on his shoulder, equally broken down in joy of the revival of their livelihood.

“Dell, how… How can we ever repay you?”Bucky asked, choking back tears.

“Ah, it's nothin’. Anythin’ fer a friend.” Engie smiled. “Now git in there. You got some hungry customers.”

“Oh, Dell! If I wasn’t the man I was, I would kiss you!” Bucky exclaimed. Veronica, however, grabbed Engie’s collar and pulled him up the few inches between them, planting a large, tearful kiss on his lips. It was brisk, but it was long enough to be completely explosive for Engie, as his cheeks flushed immediately and his eyes, while hidden by his goggles, shot open wider than they ever had.

Veronica separated, leaving a confused and shocked Engineer stunned to the ground, completely paralyzed by his friend’s wife’s forward actions. Bucky simply thanked her silently with a nod, which shocked him equally. With that, the two headed in, making a beeline to the kitchen to start preparing food with the help of some volunteer chefs Demo and Scout had managed to wrangle.

Engie was standing there for five minutes as his brain failed to reboot. Once he was able to move again, he tried to hide his already invisible eyes with his hardhat, moving briskly through the restaurant. He opened the back door, closing it behind him. He the rest of his team seated in the crescent-moon shaped booth which encircled a finely carved, ornate table. He took a quiet seat beside Medic, who gave a swift, inattentive note of greeting, which was distantly returned by Engineer as he attempted to regain regular brain functions. He shook his head, giving up on trying to reason it out. He began to listen in on Medic and Heavy’s conversation, but they were speaking in… Well, English, but they were using terms he was unfamiliar with, like ‘Aristotle’ and ‘Galileo’ and ‘Karl Marx’. Okay, he knew  _ some _ terms, but not enough to provide anything substantial to their conversation.

Now, Dell wasn’t uneducated, in fact, quite the opposite; he boasted eleven whole Ph.D.’s. However, they were more related to mathematics and the sciences than philosophy. He didn’t ace the highest potential maths and physics classes to talk about Aristotle and Archimedes, after all.

Actually, maybe they were discussing Medic’s twelve pet doves, as he had named them all after Greek philosophers and inventors, but as a Russian name came up- Yanaslava, a combination of hos two sisters’ names- Engie remembered that Heavy had been allowed to name Medic’s new thirteenth dove and had named it after his sisters, a reminder of the world he had left behind when he joined this band of fighters.

While Heavy may have appeared dumb and gullible, he was actually quite intelligent. He may not have spoken the finest English, and his mathematics and war tactics were less than refined, Mikhail had a Ph.D. in Russian Literature, and he was learning English literature and sentence structure from Medic. Since he had been hired six years ago, Heavy had made vast leaps and strides in his English. Most sentences of his were comprehensible and complex now, compared to his past broken English.

He turned his attention to Scout and Soldier, who were discussing war tactics. Well, tactics may be too liberal a word. More like ‘How many unique ways can we get killed’.

“Maybe we can teleport bread to them!” Soldier suggested, which stopped Medic mid-sentence. He slowly turned to Soldier a dire, unimpressed stare carved into his thin face- His eyes were shot open and his scowl was grim and serious. His eyes were glued open as far as they would go as his grin slowly turned sour. Engie adopted a similar stare at Soldier, recalling what had happened when they had teleported bread last.

“No. No teleporting bread. _ Ever. Again _ .” Medic said solemnly, raising his gloved index finger to Soldier’s chin.

Four years ago, Medic and Engineer had been doing experiments on Engie’s teleporter when they had made an alarming discovery. They had been testing the effects of teleportation on random things when Pyro burst in with a perfectly baked loaf of bread- the first thing ever Pyro had been able to make without burning to a crisp. However, they had tripped, and the bread had gone through. It had appeared on the other side with a mysterious green, oozing lump on the side. Since then, the two had found out that repeatedly teleporting pure bread resulted in a horrifying bread monster with teeth, oozing green lumps of liquid mould, and- if teleported enough- tentacles.

“Okay, okay. No teleporting bread.” Soldier whispered, holding his hands up in defeat as the German and Texan glared him down. Medic turned back to Heavy, and Engie resumed… Sitting idly.

Suddenly, Heavy and Medic’s conversation took a pause once more as Heavy cooed at something. Pyro had fallen asleep against the man’s continental shoulder, and a light snoring echoed from their mask.

“Aww, leetle poorson is tired.” Heavy cooed, patting Pyro’s head ever so slightly.

“ _ Ja _ , ze Pyro iz tired, apparently.” Medic commented as this was the second time Pyro had fallen asleep; once during the ten-minute drive to Teufort and now. “D’aww, zis is so cute.” Medic adored. Engie smiled as Pyro stirred in their sleep, subconsciously hearing their team fuss over their sleeping form.

Very cute indeed.

Suddenly, Pyro jolted awake as a harsh gunshot, loud glass breaking and a nails-on-chalkboard feminine scream rang out through the restaurant. The mercs busted out through the back door, their instincts for fighting now itching.

Veronica was lying on the floor, blood leaking from a hole in her right shoulder. Her pristine white outfit was slowly dying red. Bucky was kneeling next to her, his hand over the bullet wound. A white plate with food had fallen to the ground and shattered, judging from the sharp glass shards on the ground. Above the two stood a man in a black akubra, long, black trench coat and long leather boots, as well as a smoking silver revolver, small enough to be concealed within a sleeve inconspicuously. From his appearance, the Red team knew exactly who this was.

The Badlands Banger.

He was known throughout the wasteland as the most feared killer. Often operating in high-stakes (well, as high as stakes can go in this isolated hell) bank heists, train robberies- well, basically anywhere where a high payout was guaranteed. But even this deadly assassin made errors now and then. However, this would be his last, as he was now trapped in a facility with nine highly skilled gun enthusiasts who have been fighting much more powerful threats for six years.

Medic rushed over to Bucky and Veronica, barking commands to his team.

“Git me zose napkins! Bucky, put more pressure on ze vound!” Scout and Sniper rushed off the grab some miscellaneous pieces of cloth, as well as bottles of alcohol and the napkins from many tables. They returned the items to the Doctor, who went right to work. He rolled up his beige sleeves and pulled down the right corner of Veronica’s waitress outfit, revealing the wound. Her clothes made a wet, sticky peeling noise as he revealed her bloody flesh. Her wound was still bleeding, but it was rather minute as she was on her back- which he could definitely work with- he had indeed worked with much,  _ much _ less. He doused a rag in alcohol, and Veronica audibly gulped at the dripping rag as Medic wrung it out, reminding him she wasn’t an invincible madman that had fought in a superhuman war for six years. He grabbed another cloth from the pile of rags from nearby.

“Zis vill sting, you’ll vant somesing to bite down on.” He handed Veronica the rag, which she bit onto. He pressed the wet, sterilized cloth onto the hole on her shoulder gently, and in return Veronica squealed and glued her eyes shut, her cry of pain muffled by the cloth in her mouth.

“I know, I know. Bucky, vere are ze bandages?! Bandages and some thread!” Medic cried, a lock of his black hair falling over his shielded eyes.

“Um, the backroom!” He went to go get them, but Scout beat him as he dashed past. He vaulted over a mop bucket, expertly ran around a couple that had risen to see the commotion and leapt over a few chairs that had been shoved into the aisle in panic. He approached the back room, skidding into the kitchen. Near the back of the pristine kitchen was a small broom closet.

He returned to Medic a moment later, carrying a large box of gauze and a spool of thread, as well as a silver sewing needle he had found. He handed them to Medic, accidentally stabbing himself in the palm with the needle.

Medic looked grimly at the needle and at Veronica’s gentle skin. “Bite down harder.” He warned the woman. He dipped the needle into the bottle next to him, before expertly threading a strand through its eye. He poked through her flesh at the front wound, causing a more shrill, dire cry of pain.

“I know, I know.” He consoled her. Veronica’s hand was deathly attached to Medic’s leg, but that was hardly distracting him. “Keep still,  _ mädchen _ .” He poked the other side of the wound on her shoulder, threading the needle and the string through the small hole he had made as she cried and whimpered. He felt horrible for having to do this to her, which was odd. Over his many years of autopsies, surgeries and slaughters, he had built up a notably thick skin to threading things through people, in people, and even cutting and reattaching limbs. But this… killed him inside to do. He didn’t know why. He didn’t love her, as he had a wife who he often wrote to back in Rottenburg- his hometown. Then why did this threaten to freeze him?

But, regardless, he had to.

He did this again and again, bringing the wound closer together. He bit the thread off, before pulling it through and bringing her wound fully closed. He then tore off a strip of bandage, ripping it with his teeth.

“ _ Scheiße _ ! Scout, get some tape!” Medic barked. The bandage strip still clamped between his teeth. Scout took off towards the back again, before dashing back with a roll of masking tape, which would have to do. Medic snatched the roll, tearing a generous piece, which Sniper broke off for him with his large kukri. Medic laid the bandage over the sealed wound, before he used the tape to stick it to Veronica’s flesh, securing the wound. He then rolled her over, revealing another hole. He folded down her uniform again, before repeating his procedure; sterilize the wound- regretting her cries- sew the flesh, bandage it.

Finally, he tied more cloths together, making a sturdy sling for her arm. He put it around her neck, moving her blonde hair over it. He moved her arm into the sling, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of Veronica’s crimson blood. She spat the cloth she was biting into his open hand on released several short gasps of breath as her shoulders’ throbbing and burning cooled ever so slightly. Her gentle face had streaks of mascara running down, and her eyes were red and puffy.

“Th-thank you, Reficul...” She sobbed, leaning against her shorter husband.

Meanwhile, Heavy and Soldier stood behind the Badlands Banger, blocking the entryway. Scout and Demo stood to his left, while Sniper and Spy cut off his right. Engineer approached the killer, who subsequently aimed the petite- almost laughable- gun between Engie’s hidden eyes, threatening to shoot.

“Boy, what’n hell didja reckon was gonna go down here?” Engie asked, nonchalantly placing his hands on his hips. Pyro approached the killer, wrenching the gun out of his hand, aiming it back at him. “Because boy howdy, did you choose the wrong damn waitress to shoot.”

The assassin growled, before throwing a swift left punch towards Engie. See, it was fast to most, but to a man who had worked with a Russian heavyweight champion for over half a decade, it was like a cinder block. Engie grabbed the punch with his gloved hand effortlessly.

“Well, at least you tried. Boy, this is your first and last warnin’.” Engie got closer to the assassin’s face. “Git.” The assassin growled again, before throwing another punch, which was caught just as easily with the other hand. Engie sighed in disappointment before commenting,

“Well, can’t say I didn’t warn yah.” He nodded to Heavy, who grabbed the man’s right arm, pinning it to his back. His left was still gripped tightly in Engie’s right. Engie squeezed his grip, and a harsh crack came from the assassin’s hand as well as a low groan. He continued to tighten his hold until the man’s hand snapped with a shout of pain. Medic looked up from Veronica’s- temporarily- medically MacGyver’d shoulder, grinning. Her shirt was tucked back up to her, the dark red stain from her shoulder slowly soaking further into the fabric. He grabbed the last rag, using it to properly wipe his sweat-ridden forehead.

The assassin was now squirming to get out of the bind he was in, but it was to no avail. Heavy kept the man still as Engineer continued to crush the man’s hand. Blood was leaking from within Engie’s glove, but the grip didn’t loosen. The assassin was wailing in pain at this point, all he could possibly do was simply stare as his hand was mutilated by the Texan. Bone shards began to show as more and more brutal cracks echoed.

Engie then released his grip, nodding to Heavy again. The assassin fell to the ground, cradling his crippled hand. Said hand was effectively useless now.

The fabric was shredded, now only tattered nightmares of what used to be. The black colour was now a very dark red, dripping with blood. His hand was shaking minutely, the fingers spindly and broken, facing different directions. His thumb was relatively normal, but his index finger had about three more ‘joints’ than it was supposed to, and his middle was in the same place, being broken in three different places. The palm of his hand was completely destroyed, the aforementioned bone shards stabbing through the blood-soaked flesh.

“You'll pay for this.” He warned shakily, rising to his feet. He spat in front of Engie, before turning to the exit. Heavy moved out of the way, but Soldier stood the man up, standing in his way.

“You come around here again, and I will personally kick. Your. Ass. Y’understand that, cupcake?” He asked, his gravelly voice slower and clearer than usual. The assassin did nothing but step around the man, leaving the restaurant. Engie looked in distaste at his bloody rubber glove, wiping it on his thigh.

“My God Dell, how many times must you save my wife?” Bucky asked, smirking somewhat despite the situation. Medic stood, handing Bucky a slightly blood-stained contact card for another doctor outside the Badlands.

“Luckily, it vas a zhrough-and-zhrough, meaning it’s not lodged in her shoulder. I’d still practice caution, zho. I’d recommend taking it easy, don’t push it too hard, and if it gets vorse or gets infected, contact zis doktor.” Medic warned, folding his bloody hands behind him. “Vash it tvice a day vis vater und replace zhe bandages as vell. I’d say four to five months until operating heavy machinery.”

“As many times as necessary, partner,” Engie responded to Bucky, turning back and resting his bare hand on his friend’s shoulder, smiling warmly.

Suddenly, an alarm noise came from Engineer’s large pouch. He turned away from Bucky and Veronica and pulled out a grey device with a large green-grey screen. Black, pixelated words were slashed across.

“Engie, you and your team are needed at Hightower -Miss P.”

“Aw hell.” Engie grimaced. Hightower was not a site he favoured, rather it was a site that all nine of the mercenaries detested.

“Vhat?” Medic asked, curious what the device read. Engie passed it to him and they both scowled. “ _ Dammt _ . Alright, men, ve’re needed.”

“Where?” Scout asked, however, the tone tinting his voice hinted more towards fear than dislike, almost like it was the source of every nightmare ever had.

“Hightower,” Engie replied grimly.

“Aw crap.” Scout sighed. The entire team went silent, as if the very site was accursed. 

“Bucky, Veronica; Good luck,” Engie whispered solemnly as the mercs exited towards the truck.

“You too. Godspeed, Engineer.” Bucky replied nodding solemnly. Veronica simply nodded, sniffling.

Engie tipped his hard hat, before exiting the restaurant. He climbed into the truck, revving the truck’s ancient engine. He pulled out of the dirt parking lot, taking off in a westward direction. Far in the distance, a wooden tower-like structure towered above a deep, long ravine, which was drier than a bone.

“Godspeed, Red Team,” Bucky said, stepping out of his establishment.

“ _ Godspeed _ .”

  
  



End file.
